Intoxicating
by potidaea
Summary: Maria Hill doesn't drink, but Natasha Romanoff is intoxicating.


**1.**

Maria Hill did _not_ drink. She loathed the acidic liquid that turned perfectly reasonable people into irrational - and in the case of her father, cruel - morons. She much preferred water. Maybe a glass of soda once a year when she's in the mood. But water and coffee were perfectly fine otherwise, thank you.

Natasha Romanoff had no such qualms. She loved vodka; loved how it burned at her throat when she wanted to feel alive and how it seared the edges of her psyche until it blurred just enough to be bearable.

Maria Hill did not care for alcohol, but she cared for Natasha. Not that she'd admit that. But when she inevitably asked to go to a bar after a rough mission, Maria can't help but say yes.

That's how she found herself being dragged onto a dance floor by a tipsy Black Widow, her too-sober and incredibly self-aware body stiffening as the redhead rolled her hips to the music. Maria's eyes instinctively followed the other woman's body before darting her eyes away, embarrassed.

"C'mon, Hill! Don't they teach you Marines to dance?" She smirked. Her eyes were bright, open. She looked younger than Maria had ever seen her.

Maria shook her head with a laugh.

"I'll teach you," Natasha placed her hands on the brunette's hips. Leaning forward, her lips brushed against the brunette's ear as she whispered, "Dancing is like sex. Just move with me."

Maria was certain she melted into the floor. That - or every muscle in her body froze when Natasha leaned back, her left hand settling into Maria's back pocket to cup her ass. Maria wanted to be brave; to kiss her, to move with her in every and any way she'd have her. But she wanted more than a drunken kiss she isn't even sure Natasha cared was with her instead of any other stranger in the bar.

"I'm not really a dancer. Do you want something from the bar?"

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

**2.**

Natasha was not happy. She had been assigned yet another rough mission - this time through the roughest parts of Afghanistan avoiding hostile foreign and US combatants to gather intel.

Natasha was furious. The intel Fury's contact gave her to plan her entire mission around was inaccurate. She had been dodging bullets for days. She was in the middle of a firefight. She sent a coded S.O.S. message for back up to her coordinates because _fuck_ she cannot afford to be killed by a rowdy young soldier who can barely tie his boots let alone identify a hostile properly.

On day eight, Maria Hill showed up.

Natasha was high. She managed to hole up in a house that backed right up to a field of marijuana - and Natasha knew three things:

1\. Afghanistan had some good fucking weed.

2\. She didn't want to die without smoking it.

3\. She may be imminently killed by a rogue (or well-placed) bullet (see: 1-2).

Maria Hill was pissed. Or was that her concerned face? Both? She can't tell anymore.

"What happened?"

"If Fury's contact ever had intel, it's no good anymore." Another drag of the joint, she nods toward the makeshift bandage on her thigh, "Walked right into a shitstorm."

"Can you walk?"

Another deep inhale. "To the weed and back." Exhale.

Maria Hill was unamused.

"Lighten up, Hill! Take a seat. We can't move 'til dark."

The brunette sighed. "Fine. But you need to sober up so we can move out. Let me take a look at your leg."

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am." She gave a mock-salute, stamping out the lit joint after one final drag.

Maria approached her haphazardly bandaged leg, cautiously removing the cloth which sticks with caked on blood. It thankfully appeared to only be a graze. A deep graze, but a graze nonetheless. Pulling the medical kit from her pack, she assessed what needed to be done first.

"It doesn't look like you've lost too much blood, that's good. Do you think if you take off your pants you'll be able to get them back on?"

Natasha raises an eyebrow but said nothing before unbuttoning her pants to be removed.

There are two things Maria Hill was going to quickly learn about Natasha Romanoff:

1\. She _really_ likes pain.

2\. She likes sex with her weed.

Maria's first step was a penicillin shot to the redhead's thigh to avoid infection. She was greeted with a sharp inhale before removing the needle. She then made quick, careful work of cleaning out the wound with peroxide (inhale, squirm) and covering it with ointment and gauze before bandaging the leg tightly (inhale).

It was only when she leaned forward to pull the other woman's pants up that she noticed. First, it was just her smell - pure mouthwatering arousal. Then, she looked. A wet spot had formed on her underwear. Her eyes darted up to hazy green eyes.

Natasha nodded, as if to say, "yes, fuck me."

Maria wanted to scream. God, she wanted nothing more than to live in between the other woman's thighs, but she wouldn't allow herself to succumb like this.

No, if this was going to happen, she was going to be damn sure Natasha wanted it. Wanted _her_.

**3.**

Maria had been avoiding Natasha outside of work for months now - since just after Afghanistan. Every time they went out Maria was sober and Natasha wasn't. Maria was gay and Natasha was...well, she could never be sure about Natasha. Regardless, she was always the redhead's easiest target and it was becoming exhausting.

Natasha persuaded Maria to come over, reluctantly, for a movie night. ("That's what normal women do, isn't it?" Natasha asked. "I wouldn't know," replied Maria dryly.)

As soon as they entered the door, Natasha made a beeline for the kitchen. Maria followed closely behind, watching as she pulled a bottle of chilled vodka from the freezer.

"You can pick a movie. I just want a drink first."

A sigh, "Maybe not tonight?"

Natasha turned to her, confused.

"Look, if you drink you're _going to _hit on me. Can we just watch the movie?"

Green eyes narrowed, studying the other woman. She seemed to land on something because she spoke. "Who's to say I won't do that sober?"

Maria just stared at her, arms crossed._ Well, you never fucking have_ screamed across the silence.

Natasha stepped forward, backing the brunette against the countertop. Their eyes locked as her hands gripped the other woman's hips. "Maria Hill, I want to be here with _you_. No one else. You do realize you're one of three people - including me and my landlord - who knows where I live, right?"

Maybe she should have apologized but Maria didn't know what else to do but kiss her. It was soft at first - tentative and exploratory - but quickly turned searing and desperate. Her teeth pulling and scraping at Natasha's lower lip earned her a soft moan and a thumb dipping under the waist of her jeans.

"No movie?" She mumbled, barely pulling away from the kiss.

"Fuck the movie," Natasha replied before lifting her new lover onto the kitchen counter.


End file.
